


Hear the Ocean Call You Home

by LavenderJane



Series: The Ocean's Call [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Creature Fic, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-War, Selkie!Harry, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 04:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderJane/pseuds/LavenderJane
Summary: He longed for the water so much that he was almost sad to leave that tiny shack on the rocks the Dursleys had tried to hide in.One day I’ll come back; one day I’ll come home.________Harry always knew that something was missing; he just wasn't expecting it to be what he found at the bottom of the box Aunt Petunia gave him before his 17th birthday.





	Hear the Ocean Call You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Penn, for being an awesome cheerleader! 
> 
> Peach - thank you, as always, for helping me whip this thing into shape! 
> 
>  
> 
> The art in the fic is my own.

There is something missing.

Harry thought that finding out about magic would have made it better, that the hole in his chest would have filled and he would be happy. He can’t say that it _didn’t_ happen, but it’s not like what he thought it would be. He’s happy, but it’s incomplete.

And he doesn’t know why.

He retreats into himself — more than he already has — without realizing. Touch, which was never something he welcomed growing up, never something freely or kindly offered, is now nearly unbearable. He itches in his skin; he burns and thrashes in his tiny cot the Dursleys have so generously allowed him in his new bedroom upstairs.

_At least I’m not in the cupboard anymore._

But that’s the extent of his relief.

***

Growing up, the only time Harry ever felt calm was when he was in water. Whenever he could get away with it — especially if the Dursleys were away, he’d fill the tub with warm water and climb in; the relief that only ever came when submerged was one of the best things he’s ever felt, and he slipped below the surface, ready to stay there for hours.

He longed for the water so much that he was almost sad to leave that tiny shack on the rocks the Dursleys had tried to hide in.

_One day I’ll come back; one day I’ll come home._

***

Diagon Alley is a tidal wave of new sensations and feelings. People he’s never met before bow to him and smile at him and lean in to pat his cheek — he backs away before they touch him, of course, and he hopes that it’s not completely awkward; it is very kind of Hagrid to bring him to Diagon Alley, and Harry doesn’t want to upset him by refusing these people.

But Hagrid must notice he’s uncomfortable, shuffling them through the throng of people until they’re in the open street, and Harry gasps aloud.

It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, full of colour and music and strange voices and stranger clothes. It’s _wonderful._

He meets people of all sorts — some he likes, some he very much _does not_ like (really, Harry’s never met a boy so rude before) — and Hagrid buys him his very first birthday present; a handsome white owl tall enough that even sat level with Harry’s navel she can look him in the eye. Harry decides to name her Hedwig. She blinks her golden eyes at him and coos, and Harry brushes his fingers down the soft feathers of her wing.

“She’s _beautiful,_ Hagrid. Thank you.”

Hagrid beams at him, and Harry lets himself have this moment of joy.

 

                                                                                       

**_I_ **

His first year at Hogwarts goes by quickly, and leaves Harry with both friends and enemies and a few extra scars; Ron and Hermione are brilliant, and perhaps the best thing that’s ever happened to Harry. One enemy was defeated, which just leaves Malfoy, but Harry thinks he’ll have another chance at him next year.

He doesn’t really mind the scars, not really, since they can all be covered with clothes and Aunt Petunia won’t have to fuss over them like she does the scar on his forehead.

The nightmares, however, are new. Harry doesn’t know if he’ll ever forget the feeling of burning and crumbling human flesh beneath his hands.

When it gets to be too much, he thinks of the ocean, and lets a wave crash over him and bring him back to safer dreams.

Something he notices, however, is that there is a constant _pull_ in his gut — and he knows that it leads back to Privet Drive. He doesn’t know why, because not once since he left has he ever _wanted_ to go back, but it’s there all the same.

**_II_ **

Snakes have always made Harry feel as though he’s being pulled in two directions; on one hand, there is this instinctive _fear_ in him. He recognizes that they’re predators — and that he’s their prey.

But the day he realizes he’s a parselmouth, he also knows, instinctively, that snakes don’t _want_ to harm him.

_So wouldn’t that make it an irrational fear? Because I know they can’t harm me, but they’re still predators?_

Hermione would say that made him wise, to fear something that is technically within his ability to control, so Harry doesn’t really question it.

He ends the year with a Basilisk fang embedded in his arm and phoenix tears burning the poison from his veins and the sword of Gryffindor held firmly in his grip.

**_III_ **

Sirius Black is not what Harry expects.

He’s mad and he’s dirty and he’s loud but he _loves_ Harry, like no one has loved him before, and he knows it. He ruffles his hair and tells him about how much he looks like his dad except for his eyes and Harry doesn’t even mind that he’s heard it from so many other people before, because this is a man who knew his mum and dad, who held _him_ as a baby, who offers to take him away from the Dursleys.

It’s still not what he’s looking for, he knows, because in the back of his mind he can still hear the ocean, but it’s something new and he lets himself _feel,_ for a moment.

**_IV_ **

Whispers and glares follow Harry everywhere in his fourth year.

The Goblet of Fire spits out his name and Harry doesn’t know what to do about it. Dumbledore forces him to participate, because that _is_ the rule; Ron is jealous and Hermione is mad at both of them and Harry hasn’t itched like this since before he came to Hogwarts.

The first task is fear and adrenaline and fire. Hermione remains one of the best things that has ever happened to Harry.

The golden egg stolen from the dragon contains an echo of what Harry very quickly realizes is actually merspeak; under water, the screeching turns to song, and Harry finds himself relaxing in the face of this task.

From the sound of things, this task will take place under water, and he’ll have an hour to retrieve whatever the merfolk took.

It’s a closely guarded secret that Harry can hold his breath double that.

But he can’t just _not study,_ not with Hermione a frantic presence constantly hovering over his shoulder, so he reads the books and practices the spells but the way he doesn’t act concerned confuses both her and Ron.

But Harry can’t just tell them _why_ he’s not worried; they wouldn’t believe him, and the only actual answer has is _I just know_ (which doesn’t help anyone).

*

 Once the cannon goes, Harry is the first to dive, leaving Fleur, Viktor and Cedric behind him on the deck, all still casting their charms and transfiguration spells.

The water should be like ice in the middle of February, but it only feels cool and smooth on his skin. He’s never swum in anything this deep before, and Harry thrills at the freedom — from this high up, it’s not very clear where the merfolk camp is, so Harry dives deeper into the forest of weeds.

He swims by the grindylows, completely at ease; they ignore him as well, which is fine with Harry, but he thought they might’ve put up _some_ resistance — at least for the sake of the tournament. He shrugs and moves on; he can see four blurred forms in the distance, and Harry cuts his way through the forest of grasses.

When he sees that it’s _people_ that the merfolk have taken, Harry expects panic. Instead, all he feels is calm; it’s instinctive that he knows that nothing in the water is a danger to humans.

Still, when Harry swims up to cut Ron loose, he waits until Krum shows up to free Hermione before he begins his ascent.

He swims up with Ron in his arms, breaking the surface at the 30 minute mark, and his lungs barely feel any strain at all.

*

 Voldemort’s laugh is like nothing Harry’s ever heard, and it’s not something he wants to hear again.

Cedric’s body lies on the ground beside him, twisted unnaturally with eyes open and staring; Harry’s insides churn under the weight of his gaze, grief gripping his heart in a fist.

_This year… all for this?_

And the meeting of their spells causes an explosion, freeing spirits from Voldemort’s wand; he sees the ghostly forms of Cedric, Bertha Jorkins, an old man Harry vaguely  recognizes, and —

_Mum and Dad._

They look as they do in the photographs from Hagrid, as they did in the Mirror of Erised; he’s distracted by the way his mother’s hair blows in the wind, and by the way his father nearly stumbles from the golden light cast by his and Voldemort’s wands. _They look so real._

_“... Harry, oh, Harry...”_

_“Sweetheart, when the time comes, you’ll have to let go of the connection and take the portkey back to Hogwarts. We’ll be able to hold him off, but only for a few moments. You understand, Harry?”_

Harry nods, completely unable to form words. His mother’s hand is cool against his cheek, and it feels as though his chest is collapsing in on itself from the way it makes him sob.

_“We love you, Harry. Always.”_

His father turns away and shouts, _now!,_ and Harry leaps, landing on Cedric’s body and summoning the cup to him, sending them spiralling back to Hogwarts.

*

Harry experiences pure chaos when he lands on the pitch, clutching Cedric’s body to him.

_One day I’ll go to the ocean, one day I’ll go home._

**_V_ **

**_THE BOY-WHO-LIVED — THE BOY WHO LIES?_ **

Rumours follow him everywhere, taunting and leering and tutting — Umbridge is foul, unlike anyone Harry has ever met.

 _Proclamations_ line the hall, and a blood quill spells out _I must not tell lies_ across the back of his hand.

Most people believe him mad, and he almost begins to believe it too, once he starts seeing visions through Voldemort’s eyes.

At the end of the year, Dumbledore apologizes and claims he feared that being close to Harry would have somehow let Voldemort discover his secrets.

_And what about mine? Do my secrets not matter?_

_Did Sirius not matter?_

 

**_VI_ **

Malfoy bleeds, just like everyone else; the one exception is that Harry is the one that did it. 

Myrtle screams and cries and Malfoy keeps bleeding and Harry _didn’t know._

*

When he and Dumbledore Apparate to the cave, it’s the smell that hits him first. Then the wind; then, an actual wave. _It’s the ocean,_ he thinks in wonder. _The actual ocean._

It’s violent and dark and the strongest thing Harry has ever seen, and he nearly can’t stop himself from letting go and falling in. He knows it wouldn’t hurt him.

 _“Harry!”_ Dumbledore cries, trying to be heard over the howling of the wind. _“Take hold of my arm! We need to Apparate once more!”_

He has a peculiar look on his face, one Harry’s never seen before; he’s always known Dumbledore to have the look of a man who can see directly into your very soul — but _this,_ this look is just pure confusion.

_“Harry? Harry, hurry now!”_

Harry’s heart clenches, and he takes one more breath of ocean air before he reaches for Dumbledore’s arm.

*

Harry leaves Dumbledore’s funeral knowing that he’s closed a chapter of his life; Hogwarts will become a part of his past, and a memory that will — hopefully — give him strength in the upcoming months.

Harry looks over the fields and all of the people gathered to honour Dumbledore, and he catches sight of Ginny’s hair flying in the wind; the fire of it against the blue sky fills him with longing.

“Come on, Harry,” Hermione says, coming up behind him and taking hold of his hand. “We should head upstairs and get ready for the train.”  
                                                          

**_VII_ **

Aunt Petunia is carrying a box down the stairs, and Harry can hear the blood rushing in his ear. It’s the same tugging, the same feeling he always gets when he’s away at Hogwarts, like something is trying to bring him back here.

He’s never noticed it once he’s within the walls of Privet Drive once more, but now he can feel it as though it’s a drum pounding in time with his heart.

 _Whatever is in that box, it’s mine. It’s_ mine.

Aunt Petunia lengthens her neck and looks down her nose at him, and says something about Lily and about _mouldy blankets,_ and _awful tastes,_ and _such freakish possessions —_ and Harry tunes her out. The box isn’t heavy, but it still makes him stagger under its weight. The Aurors here to accompany his aunt and uncle to the safe house cast a quick look his way, but Harry shakes his head.

He will not open the box with all of them here to watch. It’s too private for that.

_At least, I think it is._

*

Harry keeps the box sealed and warded so that he is the only person able to open it; he shrinks it down and keeps it in the mokeskin pouch Hagrid gave him for his seventeenth birthday, and doesn’t dare even take the box out over the entire hunt for the Horcruxes.

He knows, instinctively, that he’s protecting something that has the power to change his life.

*

Grief is made of iron; cold and unmovable. Tears only seem to make it uglier, rusting the edges until what’s left is no longer human.

It takes time to come back to oneself, and as the sun rises on September in 1998, Harry knows that he’s ready to open the box.

*

 At first, he doesn’t know if he should ask Ron and Hermione to be there with him. He never told them about the existence of the box, anyhow, so why should he tell them now? But of course that will probably come around and bite him later, so he spends the day debating on how to bring it up to them. Eventually, he comes to the conclusion that the direct approach will work best.

“Can you both come upstairs with me?”

There’s no one else in the sitting room of The Burrow, just Ron and Hermione sitting together on the couch. Ron is dozing, mostly without success, since every time he starts to snore he wakes himself up; Hermione is nose-deep in a book of seventh year charms. At the sound of his voice, however, they both sit up. They share a _look_ , one Harry’s been getting very good at ignoring — because _no,_ they aren’t as subtle as they think they are.

“Of course, Harry.”

And so they all make their way upstairs to Ron’s room, being careful to creep past Ginny’s room so not to get her attention.

Harry settles on his bed, and Ron on his, as Hermione closes the door behind her and casts a couple of silencing charms. When Harry eyes her for that, she flushes and shrugs. “Something’s been bothering you, and that’s what you want to talk about, isn’t it?”

Harry hesitates, but eventually nods in acquiescence. “Thanks.”

Hermione nods and goes to sit with Ron on his bed. “So? What is it? We noticed that whatever it is, it’s been on your mind for a while.”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but he’s stopped by a sudden whelming of emotion in his throat. He’s never said anything about this to _anyone._ He’s never really talked about the Dursleys, no, but Ron and Hermione never really needed him to. They’ve seen enough from his childhood to put two and two together, and knew he didn’t want to talk about it.

 _This,_ sure, he can _argue_ that it was connected to the Dursleys, and therefore he didn’t have to talk about it, but it’s not. Not really. Harry has a feeling that the Dursleys didn’t even know about the connection Harry felt towards whatever was in the box.

“Mate?” Ron leans in, frowning. “You know you can tell us anything.”

“I know. I _know,_ I just.” Harry sighs loudly through his nose and closes his eyes. _I can do this. I can_ do _this._ He opens his eyes and meets their twin looks of concern, patience, and love. He nods to himself, _I can do this._

“There is something that I’ve never told either of you. Well — I’ve never told anyone, really. I’ve never — put it into words, before, and I’m trying to figure out the best way, but. But. Well, I just want you guys to _know,_ now.”

“Harry?” Hermione reaches over the small space between the beds to take his hand. “It’s alright.”

Harry exhales. “Right.

“There’s always been something… missing. From myself. And no, Hermione, it’s not — it’s not my parents, or — whatever you’re about to say about the Dursleys. Well, it has something to do with my parents, I suppose, but I don’t know what yet. But, there was always this _feeling,_ I knew that something just wasn’t _here_.

“Everytime I went to Hogwarts I would feel this — tug, in my gut. Something calling me back to Privet Drive. And I had no idea what it was, or why it was there, since coming to Hogwarts in September was always the thing I looked forward to most. And whenever I stepped back inside of Privet Drive, the feeling would disappear. Eventually, I just came to the conclusion that it was the house, and the blood protection on it.

“Until I left that last day, and Aunt Petunia brought down a box I had never seen before.”

Harry looks at them now, and he can the confusion mixing in with the concern. They have no idea what he’s getting at, and Harry can’t blame them.

“That feeling, the one I used to get at Hogwarts, came back to me. As soon as I saw the box — I knew whatever was in there was what I’d been waiting for, what I’d been looking for. And she kept prattling on and on about ‘freakish things’ and ‘dirty rags’ and how much a disgrace my father was but when I took that box I felt _magic,_ like I’d never know before, and I just…” he trails off, and Ron noisily clears his throat, bringing him back to the present.

“Mate? What was in the box?”

Harry swallows. “I don’t know.”

 _“What?”_ Hermione cries, jumping to her feet. “How do you not know? Harry, you left your aunt and uncle’s house _over a year ago._ ” Harry has the feeling that she’s more upset about the fact that Harry’s story ends in such a frustrating way, which Harry finds both predictable and amusing, but luckily he can fix that.

“I don’t know, because I never opened it. I just — I had this feeling that it would be safer if I didn’t. If I didn’t know what was in there, that way no one _else_ would. It was just, instinctive. Whatever is in the box means my life.”

The statement makes both of them eye him warily, and Harry gives them a tremulous smile. “I wanted you two to be here with me when I open it.”

Their eyes widen in shock, mouths hanging open. “Really? You want that?”

“Of course, Hermione.”

Harry reaches into the collar of his shirt and pulls out the mokeskin pouch, lifting it from around his neck. He opens it and  uses his wand to summon the box from the magically expanded interior, his heartbeat rising in tempo and power as the box is finally revealed and dropped into his lap.

They sit in uncomfortable silence. Harry hesitates, hands hovering over the lid of the box; Ron and Hermione watch him obvious concern. “Harry? Do you want one of us to open it?"

Panic makes his blood freeze, shocking him into sitting up, slamming his hands down on the box and pulling it closer to his chest. “No! No. You can’t — sorry. Sorry. It’s just, I know this is something you can’t — something you shouldn’t touch.”

“Alright.” Hermione sits back, looking startled and only a little frightened. Ron pulls her closer to his side and sets his mouth in a grim line.

“We’re here for you, mate.”

And Harry knows that it’s true, which is what finally gives Harry the push he needs to open the box.

There’s a photograph on top, of Harry and his parents and Sirius, smiling and waving at the camera. His mouth curls up in a small smile, but he only takes it out and places it to the side. It’s not what he’s looking for.

Next, he pulls out a blanket, soft and baby blue, clearly meant to swaddle. It has a silk hem that’s worn at the corners, as though someone — probably Harry himself — kept pulling at it.

When he moves the blanket aside, that’s when he sees it.

He freezes in the motion of putting the blanket down, and Hermione leans in anxiously from her seat. “What? Harry, what is it?”

It’s a fur pelt. Sleek and silver and soft, speckled with dark spots. Harry reaches down to touch it, and it sends shivers of magic down his spine. “Oh.”

“Harry?! Mate, what the bloody hell is it?”

He’s crying, which is probably why Ron is swearing like that, but Harry can’t bring himself to care. He takes the fur in both his hands and lifts it out of the box, bringing it to his face and breathing it in. Distantly, he hears Hermione gasp.

_Oh._

  _***_

He hasn’t put the pelt down. He hasn’t stopped shaking, either, but having the fur wrapped around him is soothing so he doesn’t move it. All of his nerve endings feel as though they’ve been opened and exposed to flames, and anything _not_ this fur irritates him to the point of pain.

Ron tries to touch it again, but Harry startles so hard that he nearly falls off the bed. Ron backs off with a hurt look on his face, but Hermione gives him a minute shake of her head.

“Harry… you’re _sure_ that’s yours?”

“More… more than anything.”

Hermione gently lowers herself to the floor in front of him. “Harry… I think that’s a selkie’s coat.”

From behind her, Ron makes a choking noise, but Harry only has eyes for Hermione. “Yes?”

Her eyes are shining, and when she lays a hand on Harry’s knee she’s careful to avoid touching the fur pelt. “It makes sense, really; the way your senses would sometimes react differently — or stronger — than ours, or your affinity with water and how it calms you.” And then with a bit more hesitation, “The way you avoid touch.”

Harry narrows his eyes at her. “No, no, Harry, listen. From what I’ve read about selkies, it’s that their pelts are nearly the same as their souls — it’s like carrying your heart in your hands. Of course I’ll have to read more about it to find something based more in _fact,_ but in every single thing I’ve read they’ve all been in agreement that having a selkie without its pelt isn’t good. Pu — _babies_ stay wrapped for _months,_ in both their own pelt and their parent’s pelt, and — you haven’t touched yours in so long that you didn’t even _remember_ it”

By the time she’s done, she’s very nearly in tears; Harry gives her a watery smile of his own, trying to fight his own well of emotion. He knows that what Hermione’s told him is _true._ What he’s holding in his hands is his _heart._

“But… selkies are supposed to be _female.”_

Hermione shoots a glare Ron’s way. “Of course not, Ron. Men _wouldn’t_ believe that beings such as selkies could be male, given the myths about them.”

He grimaces and shrugs, looking away from them but not managing to hide his flush. “Just what I grew up with, that’s all.”

“And now we know that Harry is a selkie, and we’re going to help him learn everything he can.”

Harry reaches out from under the fold of fur to grasp Hermione’s hand and squeeze. He doesn’t think he’s ever done something, nor will he ever do something, deserving of her friendship. “Thank you.”

Her smile is blinding, and she give his hand a returning squeeze. “Anything for you, Harry, you know that.”

He smiles and leans back against the wall, pulling the fur closer to his body; he keeps pushing up his sleeves and tries to inconspicuously hitch up the back of his shirt to make the pelt touch his bare skin, but he knows he’s close to the end of his patience — if Ron and Hermione don’t leave soon, he’ll strip right in front of them.

Hermione must notice something in his face, because she gets up from the floor and reaches out her hand to Ron. He looks at her quizzically, but he accepts her hand and lets her pull him to his feet. “We’ll leave you alone for a little while and let you rest a bit. I’ll leave the silencing charms on and I’ll ward the door as well.”

Another swell of gratitude rises in him. “Thanks, Hermione.”

“I’ll come and wake you when dinner is ready,” she replies with a smile, and she and Ron step out of the room. The door closes with a _snick_ , and Harry lets the warmth of Hermione’s magic settling over the room rush over his skin.

He begins to move without being consciously aware of it, removing clothes and kicking blankets to the foot of the bed until it’s just him in his pants, curled underneath the fur. _His pelt._

It’s hard for him to identify all of the emotions churning inside of him; there’s happiness, and stress, and _fear —_ but all like he’s never known them before. It’s like the emotions are new and they’re _his,_ just like his pelt.

He burrows deeper into his lumpy mattress, breathing in the scent of the seal skin; it’s dusty and smells faintly of baby and of cardboard, but Harry doesn’t let it panic him. It’s not a perfect fit — of course it wouldn’t be, after so long of not having it with him, but now there’s nothing keeping it from him. He has time to figure it out, now. And his friends will help him.

He breathes easier than he has in years, and falls into a deep sleep.

***

Someone is gently shaking his shoulder, and Harry blinks awake. The sun is peeking through the curtains in Ron’s room, but the light suggests —

“It’s morning?” he groans, rolling over. He pushes and pulls his coat until it’s no longer tangled in his legs — and freezes when he realizes what he’s doing.

“Closer to noon, actually. And relax, it’s just me. Your reaction was much too slow to stop anyone from seeing, anyhow.”

“Hermione,” he sighs in relief.

“Mm.” She’s settling down on Ron’s bed, pulling a book out of her beaded bag.

“I slept for nearly a day?”

“Just about. Both Ron and I tried to wake you up last night before dinner, and again this morning.” She folds her legs underneath her, and opens the book before Harry can get a good look at the cover. “You looked peaceful.”

“I haven’t slept that well in ages,” he answers honestly.

Her eyes drift to the fur draped over his chest. “Did it help?”

“More than you can imagine,” he sighs. “It doesn’t… smell like me, so it’s still sensitive, but even being able to _touch it_ is a relief. I just need some time to adjust, probably.”

“What do you mean by smell? You know your own scent?”

Harry grimaces. “Not really? I mean, you know I’ve always been sensitive to smells, and all this smells like is… dust. And cardboard. And it’s _supposed_  to smell like me. I don’t think I’ll feel comfortable putting it down at all until then.”

 _And even then, I don’t know if_ want _to put it down._

“Can I… may I touch it?” Her eyes are shining with curiosity, but her shoulders drop when Harry shakes his head.

“No. I don’t want anyone touching it, Hermione. Not even you and Ron. It feels… too private. After not having it for so long, it needs to be only mine until I’m ready.”

And that might be never. At this point, he’s definitely not comfortable wearing it openly, and with a twinge of guilt he realizes that he’s not even very comfortable with the idea of wearing it around Ron, thinking back on his reaction from the night before. Maybe one day it’ll get better, and maybe one day he’ll be okay with them touching it.

“I don’t want to tell the rest of the Weasleys, either. Not yet.”

Hermione is obviously disappointed, but nods in agreement anyways. “Alright. We’ll keep it a secret.” She pulls herself up a little straighter. “I also went to Diagon Alley this morning to buy some books on selkies.”

Harry rolls over to sit up, pulling his pelt onto his lap. “Did you?” He asks with a smile.

She nods. “There were a lot more than I was expecting, really. I hadn’t realized that there were so many different types of selkies, or that they might differ based on the family line, or — oh, _Harry,_ the _magic_ selkies have —”

Harry listens to her go on and on about selkies and their magic, and lets himself doze off once more.

***

He comes down for dinner that night. The rest of the Weasleys smile and greet him like normal, and Molly comes up to lay a hand on his forehead, a frown on her face.

“Are you feeling better, dear? Ron said you were sleeping so deeply you wouldn’t wake at all.”

Harry gives her a small smile. “Yeah, I’m feeling loads better. Don’t really know what came over me, but sleep seemed to be all I needed.”

She doesn’t say anything more — only narrows her eyes and purses her lips. “Hmm.” After one more searching look, she nods and pats his cheek. “Good. Now, sit down and have some dinner. I made your favourites!”

And she did; the table is overflowing with enough food to serve all of them thrice over. It leaves a warm feeling in his belly, and he drops into the chair between Hermione and George.

“I think you might be Mum’s favourite, Harry,” George teases him, leaning close but not even trying to be quiet.

“What was that, Georgie?”

“Nothing, Mum.”

***

Harry, Ron and Hermione are lying under the oak tree near the garden, enjoying the last bit of warmth of early October when Harry feels a chill creep up his spine. It’s unpleasant and feels like someone running cold, wet hands along his skin. Magic pulls him into a sitting position as though attached to a string, and Harry knows if he follows the feeling it will bring him upstairs to his and Ron’s room.

“Harry?”

“Someone is touching my pelt,” he tells them, heart beating furiously in his chest.

“What? But I thought you kept it hidden during the day.”

“I _do.”_ He’s on his feet in seconds, rushing back to the house — he’s not running, but he’s very close to it. _Why didn’t I keep it in my pouch today like I usually do? Why, as soon as I think to leave it, where it_ should _be safe, does it go wrong?_

Someone calls his name as he rushes through the kitchen, but he ignores it and continues his way up the stairs. From the corner of his eye he sees George, Bill, and Fleur in the living room; he knows that Percy and Arthur are at work. It would be Molly in the kitchen, which only leaves —

Ginny, standing in the middle of Ron’s room, holding Harry’s pelt open like a blanket, staring at it with wide eyes.

“Ginny.”

She starts. She must have been so focused on the fur that she hadn’t heard Harry stomping up the stairs. She whirls around, her face white from shock. The smile she gives him doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Harry!” She cries. “Harry, I didn’t mean —”

“Put that down, please.” He can feel the tension in his back and shoulders, hear the blood rushing in his ears. It feels _wrong_ , to have someone else’s hands on his pelt, and before they can have any kind of conversation she needs to _put it down._

“What? Oh,” she moves to hand it to him, instead, and Harry immediately reels back.

“No. Put it _down,_ Ginny.”

She freezes, holding the pelt out between them. “It’s yours,” she says, almost a question.

 _“Obviously,”_ he says through clenched teeth; she still hasn’t put his pelt down.

“But… how? And why wouldn’t you _tell_ me, Harry? Is this why — being a _selkie_ is nothing to be ashamed of, Harry. Is this why you don’t want to be together? We can talk about it, you know we can."

“No, Ginny, it’s not. You can’t just — you can’t just _touch that,_ Ginny.”

Harry feels Ron and Hermione come up from behind, and he appreciates the fact that they’re careful not to touch him. He’s crawling in his skin, right now.

Ginny blinks at him in shock, mouth gaping. “What do you mean? Even though I didn’t realize right away that it was _yours,_ it should still be fine. You still trust me, don’t you? I mean, we’re not as close as before, but I would never _hurt_ you, Harry.”

“That was hidden, Ginny. I put it somewhere where people wouldn’t be able to find it without actively _looking_ for it. And don’t play dumb, Ginny; touching it without my permission is — it’s —” Harry stops, taking a few deep breaths in order to calm down. “What the bloody fuck were you _doing?”_

“Oi, mate.” Ron says from behind him, moving to grab his arm. Hermione shushes him and stops the motion before he can touch Harry, but not before Harry flinches away from them both.

Breathing heavily, Harry turns back to face Ginny. She’s fidgets under his gaze and gives the ends of her hair a tug, a nervous tell that Harry can recognize from a mile away. Eventually she turns away from him, face a furious shade of red.

“I just… knew that you were hiding something, and I wanted to _talk_ to you again, Harry. I don’t know why you don’t want to get back together. You said too much is different because of the war, but it’s been months now and shouldn’t things be back to how they were? We were happy.”

“And going through my things solves this how?”

She flinches at the ice in his tone, but keeps going. “I knew I had to find whatever it was keeping you back from — moving on, and if it’s _this,_ if it’s that you’re a selkie, then this is something we can work through — of course I don’t mind that you’re a selkie, Harry, why would you think that? This is so simple, Harry.”

“How can you think I would _trust_ you after this, Ginny?” Harry hears the words she’s saying, but he’s having a hard time understanding them. Disgust is not something he’d ever thought he would regard Ginny with. “You thought that digging through my secrets and confronting me with them and forcing me to talk to you about them would rebuild our relationship? On what basis?”

All of the blood drains from her face. “Harry —”

“Get out.” He doesn’t think he can handle any more of this, and he needs to take his pelt back, and he needs to get her smell off of it, and he needs to calm down and be _alone._ “Just… get out, Ginny.”

* 

“What the hell, mate? You didn’t have to talk to Ginny like that.” Ron says, anger colouring his voice.

Harry is sitting on his bed with his pelt in his lap. He hasn’t stopped running his hands over it since Ginny stormed out of the room, trying to get her scent off of it. “Did you not _hear_ her, Ron? Yes, I did have to talk to her like that.”

He flushes. “She told you she didn’t mean any harm!”

“Ron. Even you knew enough not to touch my pelt. It feels — it’s _nauseating._ It’s feels like I’ve been —” _Violated,_ is what he wants to say, but it feels too personal to say out loud. “I’ve told her that I don’t want to get back together. I’ve told _you_ that I don’t want to get back together with her, and it’s honestly not your business to know more than that, but you can’t keep pushing us together or not believing me when I say _this is what is best for me._ I won’t get back together with her because that’s what you think is best, or because you just want your little sister happy.”

Maybe he’s saying too much, but he feels as though the skin on his back is raw and burning and yes, maybe he’s a little too attached to his pelt, but maybe that’s also completely normal but he _has no idea._ This is a piece of himself that’s been kept from him for seventeen years and having someone just barge in and take it — no matter _who_ it is — has nearly knocked him off his feet.

Harry loves Ginny, yes, but he can’t trust her.

Ron makes a move towards him, hands outstretched as though reaching for his pelt, and Harry, for the lack of a better word, _barks_ at him.

Ron tears his hands back, eyes wide and face pale. “Mate. Listen to yourself. You don’t mean that about Ginny. That fur is driving you mad.”

 _“Ron,”_ Hermione hisses.

Ron jumps to his feet, face turning a telltale shade of red; Harry tenses, waiting for his outburst.

But it doesn’t come, and Ron storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him as he stomps down the stairs.

***

 Grimmauld Place is dark and filthy and hollow, but at least Harry is _alone._

Tensions had been running high the last few days of his stay, with Ginny leaving any room Harry stepped into and Ron sending glares his way whenever Harry said something that Ron deemed unlike him, and therefore must have meant that the seal skin was affecting Harry’s personality.

The Weasley’s aren’t known for their subtlety, and eventually the rest of the house caught on that something was wrong. Eyes followed Harry around the house, making his skin prickle. The way that Ron kept looking at his pelt made him nervous, and he began to wait until Ron left the room before hiding it, even if it was just slipping it into his mokeskin pouch.

Harry was on edge the entire time, and eventually just decided that it would be for the best if he left The Burrow and moved back into Grimmauld Place.

And so now here he is, with his hands on his hips, regarding the state of his home. He can smell the decay and the dust and darkness, sharper than it would be for a human nose, he realizes now. It’s not good, but it’s not awful, and Harry imagines he can bear it until he gets the place cleaned up.

But first; “Kreacher!”

The house elf appears in front of him with a loud _crack!,_ and Harry smiles at him.

“Master is back, hmm, and Master has… something magic with him,” the house elf croaks, eyeing Harry up and down suspiciously.

Harry quirks a brow, “You can feel it?”

“Of course Kreacher can feel it, Kreacher knows when anything magic comes into The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, Kreacher knows, yes…”

 _Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep it a secret from Kreacher, anyways, since he is technically my house elf._ Harry kneels down in front of Kreacher, watching with amusement as the elf’s eyes bulge.

“No! No, Master should not be kneeling to Kreacher! What is Master Harry _doing?”_

“Calm down, please, Kreacher,” Harry tells him. “I need to tell you something, and I’m hoping you can keep it a secret.”

“Of _course_ Kreacher can keep Master’s _secrets,_ but Master _must stand up, right this instant!”_ He pulls at Harry’s sleeves, trying to force him to his feet.

 _I guess it won’t matter if I do get up, he’s probably understood by now that what I’ve got to tell him is important._ So Harry is led to a chair where Kreacher sets him down and starts fussing for tea. “Kreacher, come here, please.”

He goes immediately, standing with his hands crossed in front of him and head bowed. “Kreacher, what I’m going to tell you needs to be secret, alright? You can’t tell _anyone._ You should know because you’re the carer of the house, and because you’ve already sensed the magic of what I’ve brought with me, but otherwise you cannot discuss what I’m about to share with you with _anyone,_ unless I’ve given you permission, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course, Master Harry.”

Harry nods, and sighs. “I’m a selkie, Kreacher. And what you felt was most likely my pelt.”

Harry’s never actually seen Kreacher look _shocked,_ before, not even when Harry gifted him with Regulus’ locket, but it’s the only way to describe the look on his face now.

“But Kreacher would have known. Selkies do not just… _become._ They are born. Kreacher would have _known.”_

 _Oh, bloody hell._ Harry doesn’t know how Kreacher will handle being told that this was _kept_ from him, literally, but he supposes that it has to come out. “ _I_ didn’t even know, Kreacher. It was kept from me.”

Outrage deepens the lines of Kreacher’s face. “ _Who_ would do such a thing to Master?”

The tone is a little too threatening for comfort, so Harry nips it in the bud. “It doesn’t matter now, Kreacher —”

“Yes, it most certainly _does,_ Master —”

“No. It does not, Kreacher. It doesn’t matter because I have it now, and I’ve only had it for a few days, and it’s — it’s very important that I keep it from now on, you understand?”

Kreacher’s eyes narrow at the mention of _only a few days,_ but eventually he turns away with a grumbling _yes, Master._

“Good. Now, I actually wanted to ask for your help; I’ll be living here from now on, and I suppose that means we should get cleaning.”

Kreacher immediately stands at attention. “Of course, Master Harry, of _course_ Kreacher can help with that, Kreacher will get started immediately, yes, yes…”

So he and Harry spend the afternoon cleaning through the most important rooms — the kitchen, washrooms, and the room Harry will start to use for himself — until late into the evening. Once finished, he spells most of the dust away from an old couch in the drawing room, and unceremoniously drops himself onto it. He pulls his pelt out of the mokeskin pouch and runs his fingers through it.

 _I think Kreacher might actually be humming,_ he thinks with a smile.

Harry dozes for a while, and wakes when Kreacher calls that it’s time for dinner. Thankfully it’s nothing that the Blacks would have approved of — which means it’s not awful — and looks fine, so Harry tucks in.

After dinner, a thought occurs to Harry. “Kreacher? Would you know something about how to take care of a selkie coat?”

It’s been a passing thought in Harry’s mind over the past few days, trying to figure out how to take care of it. He could ask Hermione if she’s found anything in one of her books, but perhaps he could get a quicker answer from Kreacher.

“Kreacher knows spells, yes, Kreacher can show Master Harry spells on how to keep his coat nice and clean and proper,” he replies, and nearly throws himself down from the sink and into his cupboard, digging through his pile of knick knacks and heirlooms

Amused at the elf’s seemingly sudden new wave of energy, Harry leaves him to it and settles down to wait for whatever Kreacher is looking for. He already misses the noise and the warmth of The Burrow, but perhaps time away will do him some good. Some time to sort through some things.

It’s not as though there’s anything else to do here, all alone.

***

 Harry spends most of his days in the Black Family library. He has plenty of free time and no real desire to become an auror like Ron, so NEWTs are not really a priority for him. He studies for them at his own pace, which McGonagall has assured him is fine, after everything.

It’s inevitable that he begins to read things that don’t necessarily have to do with his NEWTs, and he stumbles upon some subjects that interest him enough that he asks Kreacher to go to Diagon Alley and buy some more on the topic from Flourish and Blotts.

“Spell manipulation?” Hermione asks during one of her visits. She comes most Saturdays, spending the afternoon with Harry before heading over to The Burrow to spend the night and most of Sunday. Harry doesn’t usually head over until dinner on Sundays. Things are still a little tense between him and Ron and Ginny, so Harry spends as little time there as possible.

Molly doesn’t let him get away with _no_ visits, though, so he does make sure to write her at least once a week.

“Not _manipulation,_ but tweaking,” Harry replies. "Working on changing the function of certain spells, creating ones that are more useful or more precise.”

She blinks, a look of surprise on her face. “That’s… that’s very interesting, Harry.”

It’s said in the same tone she’d used once when she found out that Harry had actually finished an essay two days before it was due, and Harry snorts. “Thanks, Hermione.”

She must have caught on to Harry’s train of thought, and she shakes her head to hide the way her cheeks have turned pink. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

“No. I mean, not besides Kreacher, who goes out to buy some more books for me.” Harry gets up to pour both of them another cup of tea, and he narrows his eyes at the new determined light in Hermione’s eyes. “What?”

“I think you should talk to Professor McGonagall about this, Harry. Clearly you’ve done a lot of studying on your own, but this isn’t really an ideal place to practice, is it?” She makes a vague gesture around the room, but Harry knows she means the state of the house in general. Harry and Kreacher have been doing their best to tidy it up, but it’s taking a lot more time and magic than they were both expecting. “Hogwarts would be the perfect solution. You’ll have the space and the resources to study some more, and I’m sure McGonagall would allow it. Besides, it would be good for you to get out of the house more often.”

“I _do_ get out of the house, Hermione. I go buy books in Diagon.”

“No, you just told me that _Kreacher_ goes to buy the books.”

“Only _sometimes,”_ he tries, but it’s a touch too defensive and Hermione mouth curls up in triumph.

“And as if the world wouldn’t know if you’ve stepped out in public, Harry. I know you’ve added more wards to the house because of the press, too.” She gets up, brushing off her jeans and summoning her robe from the hall. She comes over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Just write to her, won’t you? I know it’s been hard with everything that’s happened —” at that, she gives a knowing look to the mokeskin pouch hanging around his neck — “but you should start taking a few steps back into things, Harry.”

Harry sighs in defeat, and gives her a small smile. “You won’t budge on this until I do it, right?”

She grins. “Nope.”

Harry shakes his head, rueful. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Hermione walks over to the Floo, and as she grabs a handful of powder she turns to call back, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

And she’s gone in a cloud of green smoke.

***

 

Hermione is right, as usual. 

The library is empty so early in the morning on a Saturday, and Harry leans against a window and looks out onto the Hogwarts grounds. Fog hangs low above the grass, rolling out over the lake; it’s going to be a warm day, for October. _Perhaps later I’ll sneak down and go for a swim._

A year since he discovered his pelt, Harry now has his NEWTs and an open future; in the Spring, he’d surprised everyone but Hermione when he announced that he wasn’t planning on pursuing a career as an auror anymore — Ron most of all.

“When did you decide this, mate?”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Decided it’s not really what I want _or_ need right now.”

Ron had a lost expression on his face, and Harry leaned over to punch him in the shoulder. “It’s not a big deal, Ron. You’re going to be an amazing auror.”

“But we were going to do it _together.”_

Harry gave him a small smile. “It’s… not for the best, Ron. Too public.”

Ron’s expression immediately soured, clueing in to what Harry’s referring to. “You can’t just _let_ it dictate your life, Harry —”

“Why not, Ron? It _is_ a part of me. And having a job where that secret could be fatal isn’t something I want to deal with. Besides,” Harry sighed. “I don’t think I’ve wanted to be an auror for a long time. I’m done with chasing after nightmares, Ron. This just gave me the push I needed.”

Ron relented, eventually.

And once McGonagall replied to Harry’s letter and gave him permission to study at Hogwarts, it was something that he just couldn’t get out of his head.

So now he works as a part-time tutor, and runs a weekly Defense Against the Dark Arts club. And he can’t remember a time he’s been happier.

He still has plenty of time to himself, time to wander the castle and run his fingertips along the walls, remember the good times more than the bad.

_It’s good, relearning Hogwarts._

He turns away from the window, ready to face a day of research. The library at Hogwarts is a challenge Harry is surprised to find himself excited to face.

_I guess I’ll start with some charms today._

***

 January brings a familiar face back to Hogwarts. The first day of term finds Harry walking into the Great Hall to see Draco Malfoy sitting at the staff table, right next to Harry’s empty chair.

Harry blinks, and then blinks again, not quite believing what he’s seeing; Malfoy lifts his head and narrows his eyes at him, and then looks at the empty seat next to him as though it has personally offended him, and Harry inwardly sighs. _Oh well. Let’s just get this over with and see what this is about._

So Harry goes up to the table without a word of complaint, and he hides his amusement at the obvious way McGonagall is eyeing them from her seat at the centre of the table.

 _Let’s see if I can shake things up a bit._ “Hullo, Draco.”

 _Success._ Harry’s never seen Malfoy — _Draco —_ gape, but the look on his face right now is coming very close to it.

Harry lifts his brows, putting on an expectant look.

“Potter,” he greets. When Harry only keeps waiting, Draco flushes. But he sticks out his chin and stares back with a prideful glint in his eye, and Harry figures that his expression is enough of a victory for the first day.

Harry drops into his seat with a smile, and eats his lunch without another word to Draco.

***

Harry finds out later from McGonagall that Draco is at Hogwarts for similar reasons to Harry: he’s here to further his studies, focusing on potions. Most likely, Harry assumes, to become a Potions Master.

Which is fine with him; he hasn’t thought of the Malfoys much in the past year. Not since their trials, really, although Narcissa did write to him and thank him for testifying at her own trial as well as at Draco’s. He sent back a short reply, and that was that. He’s had other things to worry about since then.

But now that they’re within the same walls once more, Harry can’t help himself; he pokes and prods and teases and taunts until Draco _has_ to talk to him.

“What do you _want,_ Potter?”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Nothing, Draco.”

The expression on Draco’s face is priceless, and Harry hopes that it’s not written on his own face how hilarious he finds it.

The longer Draco stares at him, and the longer Harry stays quiet, the more Draco gets worked up. When Harry _still_ says nothing, Draco throws his hands up in the air and turns away, grumbling about _bloody tosser,_ and he does it so much drama that Harry wouldn’t have been able to hold back his smile for anything.

***

“Draco’s at Hogwarts too, now. He’s studying for his Potions Apprenticeship.”

Across the table, Hermione freezes midway through bringing her tea up to her mouth. Harry watches emotions flit across her face fast as lightning, until she sets her cup down without taking a drink and stares at Harry with very peculiar expression on her face. “Is that so?”

Harry nods, wary. “Yeah, he came in January. We have conversations, now. Sometimes he comes to my Defence club.”

Her mouth twitches at _conversations_. “You call him Draco?”

“Well, yes,” Harry frowns at her. “It annoys him.”

Hermione stares at him with an incredulous look on her face — _kind of like Draco, actually —_ but all she does is shake her head and laugh, giving him an indulgent smile. “Of _course_ it does.” 

She spends the rest of the afternoon giving Harry _knowing_ looks, and only God knows what Harry’s missed now.

***

Harry tucks the map back into the pocket of his hoodie and makes his way to the back of the library. He finds Draco exactly where it said he would be, sitting at the table at the very back, right next to the window. Harry smiles and makes his way over to him, dropping his books onto the table and dropping into the seat across from him.

Draco doesn’t even startle anymore, or try to argue against his presence. He only sighs and keeps reading, ignoring Harry completely.

Harry watches him for a few minutes, glad that he managed to wake up so early today; early morning light makes Draco look like pure magic.

Draco sighs again, and finally looks up from his book. He glares at Harry. “What are you even doing here, Potter?”

Harry beams at him. “Well, today I’m planning on studying the body-bind curse and trying to figure out if there are ways I can isolate its effects.”

Clearly it’s not the answer Draco is expecting, given the tone of the silence that follows his answer. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Well,” Harry starts, “what if you broke your leg, or your arm, and no one is around to help? I mean, you or I could apparate, I suppose, but if you’re injured that makes for a higher risk of splinching, and this could help students too young to apparate, too. Anyways — if I could figure out how to break down the body-bind curse and create an alternate version that would only focus on, say, the bones in a specific limb, it would make it safe for you to move yourself or for someone else to move you without jostling the injury.”

“That’s… actually smart, Potter.”

“I’ll take it. Thanks, Draco.”

He scowls, as if just realizing that he’s actually given Harry a kind-of compliment. “So you’re… a spell-creator?”

“Well, I’m not creating _new_ spells. I’m just tweaking ones that already exist.”

“So that they have a new purpose. Probably with a new incantation, as well.”

Put like that, Harry has to admit that it _is_ more like creating a new spell. “I guess so.”

“And you’re just doing it… without _any_ proper training.” There’s an outraged edge to his words, which confuses Harry.

“Yes?” To be honest, Harry didn’t know that you needed to _train_ to become an inventor. That seems a little redundant, given the spontaneous and impulsive nature of the process. He sees a spell, feels the weight of its magic, and wonders what would happen if he did _this,_ instead of _that._ Why would he need training for something like that?

But Draco growls in frustration and Harry looks at him in surprise. “Of _course_ you can just create new spells. Of _bloody course_ you can, you’re the _bloody_ Chosen One.”

Irritation flares, and Harry snaps. “Knock it off, Malfoy.”

Perhaps it’s the sudden jump back to _Malfoy,_ or perhaps it’s Harry’s tone, but it does make Draco pause. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and glaring at Harry over the table. “It’s very difficult to create new spells, you know. People do tend to need training, or a Master to apprentice under, at the least.”

“Snape did it himself, though.” Which is apparently news to Draco, judging from the expression on his face. “ _Muffliato, Levicorpus, Langlock,_ and… _Sectumsempra._ ”

Draco’s face pales. “He invented that spell?”

Harry’s smile is small and grim. “‘ _For enemies’,_ he wrote. And that’s all I knew about the spell when I used it.”

Harry’s apologized for the curse before, and he’s not going to apologize again. It’s not what Draco wants, and Harry doesn’t think he needs it, either.

Draco sniffs, “Well of course Severus could invent spells without training. _He_ was a genius.”

Harry smiles and tugs one of his books to him, leafing through it until he finds the spot where he left off. “Whatever you say, Draco.”

***

 Easter is late that year, and it’s unnaturally warm enough that Harry can enjoy an afternoon in the sun without having to worry about any students roaming the grounds over the holidays. He’s glamoured his pelt to look like a cloak and spread it out on the grass beneath him; it soaks up the heat from the sun and it leaves him in a daze.

He hums in quiet pleasure, completely at peace.

It’s not often that he can bring out his pelt like this; he does, of course, wear it when he gets home in the evening, and he doesn’t tend to put it away until the very last minute before he Floos to Hogwarts.

Footsteps come up behind him, and Harry cracks an eye open to see Draco peering down at him, blocking out the sun. “Have you been here all day?”

“It’s only half two,” he replies.

Draco rolls his eyes and gracefully drops onto the ground beside him. Harry tries to subtly move his pelt out of Draco’s way, which of course he notices right away. “Don’t think I’m worthy of sitting on your old cloak, Potter?”

“Nope. This is high quality old cloak, for my use only,” he quips.

Draco shakes his head, “Whatever, Potter.”

“Why won’t you call me Harry?” he asks. “I’ve been calling you by your name for months.”

Pink spots appear high on Draco’s cheeks, and he doesn’t turn to look down at Harry. “Why would I do that?”

“I would like it,” he supplies. Dracos cheeks deepen from pink to red, and Harry thinks about Hermione laughing in his kitchen. _Of_ course _it annoys him._

_Oh._

“What?” Draco asks, a suspicious gleam in his eye. “You have an idiotic expression on your face.”

“Do I?” Harry smiles up at him. “You should lie back. It’s nice just watching the sky.”

He narrows his eyes, still suspicious, but when Harry remains quiet he sighs and unbuttons his cloak, letting it drop behind him. He takes his time getting comfortable, making little noises that make Harry smile.

Finally, he sighs with a huff and turns his head to look at Harry. “You’re so strange.”

There aren’t any words for what Harry feels just then, but from the way Draco’s eyes shine he might be feeling it too.

***

 Just as always, the end of the year sneaks up on Harry. He watches the leaves grow and the flowers bloom and smells the rain as it comes down and he’s still surprised when he wakes up one day and suddenly students are waiting by his office — all in different stages of panic — because of their upcoming exams.

He sets up extra tutoring hours and their weekly DADA club meetings have been focused solely on revision, but he doesn’t mind. Occasionally, Draco stays back to help some of the students with their Potions or Arithmancy or Ancient Runes.

Finally June arrives, and with it year end exams; Harry smiles as he watches the students run by, rushing to get to their exams early to study for just a few more minutes.

He and Draco stand outside the Great Hall, waiting for the wave of students to move on so that they can have a mostly quiet lunch without having to sit under the cloud of anxiety that seems to hover over the entire student body.

At the point when the corridor is at its fullest, however, is when Harry feels the familiar flare of Weasley magic — there’s a loud _pop,_ and a few girls scream. Harry steps off the wall to investigate what happened, when someone’s voice cuts in — “Hey, Simon, are you _sure_ it’s supposed to do that? That’s not what it said on the box —”

Another _pop!,_ but louder and larger and strong enough to lift everyone around off of their feet. They bounce off of walls and the floor and each other, and Harry feels something catch his chest and pull; he hits the ground, breath forced from his lungs. He rolls over and coughs, eyes watering until he can get in a proper breath.

 _“What is the meaning of this?”_ Professor McGonagall’s voice carries over the wreckage in the hall. Students start explaining all at once, words indistinguishable from one another. After getting four good lungfuls of air, Harry’s calm enough to realize that this was probably a dysfunctional _Bounce-a-Bout —_ a new _Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes_ product meant to mimic the inside of a muggle bouncy castle. He might not tell George about what happened, because he’ll probably like it _too_ much, but he can see the how it has the potential to be funny.

Then the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up.

He shivers, panic thrumming through his veins as he looks up, and instinctively he _knows_ what he’s going to find, but he’s not ready, not ready _at all,_ for what’s happening, and —

His mokeskin pouch, snapped from around his neck and torn in the chaos, lies open on the ground, with his belongings spread for all to see.

“Mr. Potter, is this _yours?”_

A student Harry recognizes as a seventh year Gryffindor holds his pelt in her hands, eyes wide.

“That’s _seal skin,”_ a random voices calls.

“As in a _selkie’s coat?”_

_“Harry Potter is a selkie?”_

And there are hands — so many _hands —_ stroking the pelt and pulling it this way and that way like they’re _fighting_ over it, and it makes him _ill._

“Everyone, _stop this at once! Pennybrook, give that back to Potter this instant!”_

McGonagall’s voice makes no difference.

“Ple-please put it down,” Harry tries, but he can’t tell if he’s whispering or shouting from the blood rushing in his ear.

_One day I’ll go to the ocean; one day I’ll go home_

Someone steps up next to him, fury practically _radiating_ like heat from their body. Harry looks up, struggling to catch his breath, at Draco. But he’s is focused solely on the students in front of them who are tugging Harry’s coat this way and that way, holding his wand up and pointing it directly at them.

 _“Put. That. Down. Now,”_ he hisses.

The ice in his voice is more effective than anything else has been in getting their attention, and Harry wonders if Draco rolled up his sleeve on purpose, if he knows that the way his eyes flash silver makes him look powerful —  

_And beautiful._

Harry tears his eyes away from Draco when he feels a tugging in his chest. He watches the girl, the seventh year Gryffindor, who is approaching him with his pelt. He feels the tension slowly ebbing, but there’s a glint in her eye that makes Harry uneasy.

“Here you are, Harry.” His insides flip, because she’s trying to _gift it back to him,_ and from the looks of it, she knows exactly what she’s doing — and it makes bile rise in his throat.

Harry sees the red light of a stinging hex, but it only fully registers when she screams from the shock of it; it hits her wrist, and she drops the pelt in order to clutch her arm with her uninjured hand. Harry swipes his pelt off of the floor in front of her and gathers it to his chest in the blink of an eye.

 _“Mr. Malfoy!_ You can _not_ hex a _student!_ ”

Draco sneers at the student, and turns to face Professor McGonagall. “Yes, I _can_ , when she was so obviously trying to get Potter to take _his selkie coat_ from her _hands.”_

McGonagall pales, snapping her gaze to the Gryffindor. “Pennybrook?”

The girl fidgets, eyes downcast. “Of c-course not, Headmistress.”

McGonagall narrows her eyes. “50 points from Gryffindor. You were about to commit a _crime,_ Pennybrook, one that could have landed you in Azkaban for the rest of your life.”

Pennybrook’s face drains of blood, her eyes wide with shock.

“Detention every night this week, as well,” McGonagall turns to face the two of them once more. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy, please make your way to my office and wait for me while I deal with the rest of this.”

Draco nods and gathers up the rest of Harry’s belongings, allowing Harry to bring himself to his feet without needing to take his hands off his pelt. They walk side by side through the crowd of students, ignoring the way that most of them eye Harry.

The walk goes by in a blur; he can still feel all of the hands of the students as though they were touching _him._ Panic thrums under the surface of his skin, making him itch and burn. He doesn’t remember Draco’s fingers on his elbow leading him to the Headmistress’ office, and when Harry blinks back into awareness he’s already sitting in a chair in front of McGonagall’s desk with a cup of tea held between his palms.

“Oh,” he says, and looks up. Professor McGonagall is behind her desk, eyeing Harry with obvious concern. “When did you get in, Professor?”

Her brows nearly disappear into her hairline, and she shakes her head at Harry. “Well, understandably you’re not in any state to talk about this now — go home, Potter. Unfortunately I can’t take back what’s already left the castle walls, but I’ll make sure that no one else thinks it a good idea to share your secret with anyone else. Mr. Malfoy will make accompany you home, and please feel free to use my Floo.”

***

 Harry stumbles through the Floo in Grimmauld’s drawing room, with Draco following close behind him. Harry closes his eyes and takes a moment to breathe in the familiar space; no matter that the house still isn’t _cheerful,_ it’s home, and he can feel himself calming down by the second. He feels more than hears Draco walk past him, and listens as he dumps Harry’s belongings onto the table.

“The house is very different to what I remember.”

Harry blinks his eyes open. “You’ve been here before?”

He shrugs. “Not since I was a young child. It _is_ the Black house, and I _am_ a Black, you remember.”

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s just that the first time I came here, it looked as though it had been abandoned for decades, not just a few years.”

“No, that’s what it looked like before, as well. Old, mouldy and Dark.” Draco runs his fingers along the wall, seeming to marvel at the lack of dust. “Is Great-Aunt Walburga still around?”

“With a permanent sticking charm and a thick curtain drowned in silencing spells, yes.”

Draco’s lips curl up at the corners. “Of course.”

He turns away from Harry, but the set of his shoulders suggests that he’s _trying_ not to look at him, forcing nonchalance. “So I suppose I’ll be staying for the night, then? There must be plenty of spare bedrooms that I could use.”

“What? Why would you stay?” Harry shakes his head, incredulous. “I appreciate you helping me today, really, but you don’t need to stay.”

Being in his own home works wonders on calming him down, yes, but that also means being able to wear his pelt openly — which after this morning he is not very comfortable doing.

“Well, of course it’s because you’ll need someone to set up extra wards, since I can only _imagine_ what the wizarding world will do to you once they find out. And who better to ward the Black House than a Black? I know you’re the heir, but there _are_ some things that only a blood relation can do.”

Harry has to acknowledge the truth in that, but still —

“Of course you don’t have to entertain me, since I am imposing,” Draco adds, almost as an afterthought. “You can take as much time as you need to rest.”

“What do you want for it, Draco?” Harry _knows_ that Draco’s changed; while he might have to twist his arm to get him to admit that they’re friends, Draco wouldn’t do anything to harm him. But he _does_ know that tone in his voice.

The tips of Draco’s ears turn pink — which Harry can silently admit is quite endearing — while he considers his answer. Harry doesn’t have to wait long, of course; when Draco wants something, he’ll eventually find one way or another to get it.

“I would like — I would like to _see_ it. In the morning, of course, if you do allow it.”

Harry blinks, not expecting that response, or at least the _thoughtfulness_ of that response. Based on the reactions of everyone who’s seen it, or found out the truth, so far, people tend to become quite demanding in their curiosity and fascination.

But Draco was careful to word it in a way that makes it a request that Harry can politely decline, emphasized _see_ rather than _touch,_ as well as acknowledging that Harry would need time alone to calm down. Harry has all of the control in this situation, and that trust deserves some in return.

He smiles at Draco, warmth curling in his chest. “Of course, Draco. Thank you for asking.”

Draco’s eyes shine with the force of his joy, and Harry can tell that he’s trying his damndest to not let his smile show. His ears are fully pink, now.

“You can take any room from the first floor up. Mine is on the fourth floor. The Floo address is Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, if you need to go and grab some of your things,” Harry runs his fingers along the mantle and feels the wards shift with his will. “You’ll be let through the wards.”

Draco stares at him with wide eyes, asking incredulously, “You just changed the wards, wandless _and_ wordless?”

Harry keeps walking, anxious now to be alone after such a long day, but he turns one more smile at Draco before he disappears around the corner. “I’ll see you later, Draco. I won’t be back down until tomorrow morning, most likely. Make yourself at home.”

Harry moves up the stairs, mind already drifting, ocean waves whispering in his ear.

***

Harry wakes warm and content, blanketed under his pelt, and stretches noisily; the window lets in the barest glimmer of morning light, meaning it’s still much too early. He burrows deeper into the mattress and hums as the waves of magic wash over him.

 _I’m allowed a bit of a lie in today, aren’t I? As the last day of peace in the foreseeable future._ He can only imagine what all of the papers will look like this morning, and in the evening, and tomorrow and the day after that, and — well. He’s had his year of peace, and it might just be his lot in life to not get any more than that.

 _Now that’s a tad_ too _depressing,_ he thinks. He rolls over with a sigh, careful not to brush the fur of his pelt backwards. A night spent wrapped in it and then covered by his own bedding did the job of taking away the feel of other people’s magic and their scents, but it’s still hard getting out of bed and leaving its warmth behind.

But the longer he lies still and the more he wakes up, the more he can smell breakfast wafting up the stairs. Bacon and eggs and tomatoes, it smells like, which is unusual since Kreacher doesn’t tend to start breakfast until a bit later, since Harry doesn’t usually get up until at least after seven.

Which means that it must be Draco.

Curious now, Harry heaves himself out of bed. He considers leaving his pelt upstairs, but upon remembering Draco’s request and his own promise, he decides against it and keeps it wrapped around his shoulders; nerves make his stomach roil, but he pushes past it and makes his way downstairs.

He descends all the way to the basement, where, yes, it is Draco standing at the stove frying some eggs.

“Good morning,” Harry says through a yawn.

Draco turns his head to call a greeting in return when his eye catches Harry’s pelt. His eyes widen a fraction and he goes to stop cooking, but Harry shakes his head at him. “Won’t you finish, first? I’ll be staying down here the whole time, anyways. You can get a better look after breakfast.”

To Draco’s credit, he doesn’t immediately look disappointed; he simply hums in agreement before turning around to deal with breakfast once more.

Harry dozes some more in his chair, put off by the early hour. He startles awake at the clink of a plate on wood, and he looks down to see a full breakfast spread out in front of him. “Wow,” he says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Draco replies. “Now eat, so that I can finally get a look at your coat.”

Harry smiles at his honesty, and digs in; it’s good, surprisingly so, although he won’t tell that to Draco. “Do you always get up this early?”

Draco narrows his eyes at him from across the table. “It is perfectly reasonable to get up at five thirty in the morning, I’ll have you know.”

“Er, no, it’s not.”

“Well, you’re just a brute, then.”

Harry snorts. “That bar is set way too low.”

“It’s not a problem to have _standards,_ you know.”

 Harry smiles at him, teasing. “Whatever you say.”

***

 Draco is practically _vibrating_ by the time they’ve finished eating. They don’t bother cleaning up, because at this point Kreacher is awake and grumbling about ‘ _Masters not waking Kreacher to make breakfastses, Masters are ignorant to the ways of the Great and Noble House of Black, Kreacher must —’_

He goes on and on until Harry asks him to clean up after them, just to appease him. Hermione will probably smack him once she finds out.

The two of them go upstairs to sit in the drawing room, and Harry waves his wand to make the fire roar brighter and hotter. He curls up on the couch, bringing his pelt out from behind him and folding it onto his lap.

“Well?” he asks Draco. “Sit down over here, then.”

And he does, so slowly and cautiously that Harry fights the urge to roll his eyes. _Hermione wasn’t even this careful._

Although perhaps Draco’s pureblood upbringing means that he _knows_ something about selkies, which isn’t something Harry considered before now. He certainly treats Harry differently than anyone else has.

Draco settles eventually, and Harry watches as he even goes so far as tucking his hands behind his back. Harry gives him a _look_ for that, but Draco only holds himself up straighter, a defiant look in his eyes. “It is an honour to be allowed to look at a selkie’s coat. I will treat it as such.”

Harry blinks, and thinks _yes, I suppose there are some things I don’t know._

So he doesn’t say a word, only unfolds the pelt in his lap so that it lays across his legs like a blanket. The magic in the pelt tingles across his skin the way it usually does, making him shiver.

Draco hardly notices from the way he’s leaning over and into Harry’s space, eyes wide with awe as he takes it all in. “It’s _beautiful,”_ he whispers.

Harry isn’t so modest as to say it isn’t, because he knows that it is, but it’s also the first time someone has reacted so earnestly.  “Thank you,” he replies, his face heated.

The firelight makes the silver of the fur look bronze, and the speckles of darker fur seem to dance across its surface. The fact that it can make Draco have this kind of reaction makes something like _pride_ curl in Harry’s chest.

Draco still hasn’t removed his hands from behind his back, which means more than Harry can say. He leans back, eyes still shining and cheeks flushed as he meets Harry’s gaze. “Thank _you.”_

 _And he truly means that,_ Harry thinks in wonder.

 ***

 Draco is the one to finally bring up the paper. “Shouldn’t you just get it over with? It’s nearly eight, which in my experience is when the owls carrying complete strangers’ very important opinions on your life start to show up.”

Harry grimaces, and grips his pelt tighter in his fist. “I suppose so. Kreacher!” He calls, and is almost immediately answered by the telltale _crack!_ of apparition.

“Yes, Master Harry?" 

“Could you fetch us a copy of _The Prophet,_ please?”

“And then immediately start on a pot of tea when you get back,” Draco adds.

“Of course, Masters,” Kreacher bows and hums, popping in and out of existence, returning almost immediately with the paper clutched tightly in his wiry fist.

“ _Master!_ They be telling Master's secrets! Mudbloods and traitors and no good _filth,_ thinking they can —”

Harry’s heart sinks. “Kreacher —” 

“Pot of _tea,_ Kreacher, please,” Draco interrupts. He takes the paper from the elf and waits until he shuffles into the kitchen before opening _The Prophet_ for them both to read.

Harry’s face is plastered on the front page, using a photo from just a few days after the final battle; the circles under his eyes are like bruises, and he’s covered in scrapes with a manic look in his eyes. His stomach drops. He already knows where this is headed.

 

**_SECRETS OF THE POTTER LINE REVEALED_ **

_by RITA SKEETER_

_It has recently come to this reporter’s attention that Harry Potter, deeply troubled teen and unlikely saviour of the Wizarding World, is a_ selkie — _a creature of such mysterious origins and powerful magic that Wizarding Britain hasn’t seen on land for centuries —_

 _Or so we, the unsuspecting Wizarding public believed! Just yesterday at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, an explosion caused by a dysfunctional product from dangerous joke shop_ Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes _exposed Mr. Potter’s secret — as well as his violent side._

 _“He was so aggressive trying to get back his pelt — I was only trying to keep others from taking it!” says a fourth year Hufflepuff student, who wishes to remain anonymous. “But he was so_ angry, _and he didn’t even look human!”_  

 _Well, what would one expect? It turns out our saviour_ isn’t _human, after all. Selkies are known to be quite violent in protecting their pelts, and it’s a wonder as to how he’s managed to keep such a dangerous secret from us for such a long time. Shouldn’t it be the public’s right to know such a thing? Should we_ allow _such a dangerous being to live amongst our children? For more information on the dangers of selkies and analysis of Harry Potter’s mixed past, please turn to page 4._

Harry falls back against the couch, body completely numb. He sighs and closes his eyes. _It’s worse that I thought it would be._  

“Harry? Does… does your pelt react at all to magic? If I levitate it?” Draco’s voice sounds far away, muffled as though underwater.

Harry takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. “What?”

“Can I levitate your pelt, Harry?”

Confused, he only grumbles his agreement before he feels the pelt slip off of his lap.

“Lean forwards,” Draco asks, voice no louder than a whisper. Harry sighs when he feels his pelt fall into place on his back and wrap around his shoulders. He sighs again, relaxing under its warmth, and looks up at Draco, pleasantly surprised. He reaches out to take his hand, delighted by the way it makes him blush. “Thank you.”

He hums, leaning back on the couch and adjusting Harry’s grip on his hand so that their fingers are interlocked. Draco gives it a tentative squeeze, expression forcibly blank, but when Harry smiles and gives his hand a squeeze in return, he relaxes. He turns a searching look on Harry, watching with a question very obviously on the tip of his tongue, but he stays quiet for so long that Harry wonders if he should just ask what’s on his mind.

But as usual with Draco, in the end he doesn’t usually have to wait very long. “How _did_ you keep it secret for so long?”

“It was pretty easy, actually,” Harry laughs, but he can tell that Draco hears the bitter edge to it, given the way he shifts on the couch. “Because I didn’t know.”

“What?” He asks, aghast. But almost immediately his eyes narrow with suspicion. “That’s not possible, to even _dare —_ Harry. Harry, _who_ kept it from you?”

Harry swallows, his mouth suddenly gone dry. _I suppose I could tell him. It wouldn’t hurt to tell him._ “The Muggles I grew up with.”

Draco reacts so violently that Harry is nearly knocked off of the couch. He watches Draco, stunned, as he begins to pace in front of him.

“ _How_ can that be? _How_ would they be able to do that to you?” Draco could have been shouting, or he could have been whispering — it doesn’t really matter, not with the way the blood is rushing in Harry’s ears. He wishes Draco would come back to the couch to hold his hand again.

“I don’t think they did it on purpose. No, no, hear me out, Draco. Honestly, I think if they knew the truth, they would have tried to _burn_ it. They called me a freak for the first ten years of my life just because they knew I had magic — which I _didn’t_ know, not until Hagrid told me when I was eleven, by the way — and I grew up in a _cupboard._ With everything else going wrong, of course I felt there was something missing, but I had always figured it was just —”

Draco’s eyes bore into him.

“Care,” Harry finishes. “And so, it was kept from me. I didn’t actually know I was a selkie until… a year and a half ago.”

“You only found your coat a year and a half ago, and you _still_ let me see it?” Harry’s never heard so much awe in Draco’s voice before, and it makes him flush and squirm. “You’re _amazing.”_

“Why do you think that? You… you’ve reacted so differently to everyone else. You treat it like… like it’s some treasure.”

Draco blinks, confusion digging a line between his brows. “But it _is._ Selkies are amazing beings of magic. And beautiful, and powerful.” His lips curl up at the corners. “Although I have read that they’re usually more intelligent than you are.”

Harry gives his hand a squeeze, but he’s thankful for the teasing. _I don’t think he realizes that he just called me beautiful_ and _powerful. Better to just leave it, probably._

“But how else have people been treating you?”

“Honestly, I don’t think I have much to go on, since only three people know, besides you. And Ginny only found out by accident — or, not by accident, but that’s — later. I’ll tell you about that later. Of course Ron and Hermione know, but the way they reacted is different from _you,_ as well as from each other.

“Hermione understands, to an extent, that it’s a part of me. That it’s a part of my soul that was taken from me, and then I got it back, and she gets that I was attached to it for a while. She’s done so much research to try and help me, and I honestly don’t know what I ever did to deserve a friend like her.

“But it’s still very… scientific. She likes to see things based on facts and reason and books. She can’t really understand the emotional attachment I have, and I would imagine that mine is stronger because I didn’t have it for most of my life, and then it was literally dumped in my lap.

“Ron… didn’t take it as well. He sees it as something completely separate from me. I think it’s because they’ve known me for so long _without_ my pelt, that any change that’s happened after it is… negative. Like it’s changing my thoughts and personality and that it will eventually drive me mad. I think the fight I had with Ginny is one of the reasons Ron is upset about it — but she snuck into my things and rubbed her hands all over it and tried to brush it off as though she didn’t — _violate_ me, and yeah, I got mad at her. Ron didn’t expect that, and he didn’t like it, and he’s decided that my pelt is twisting my personality.

“It’s gotten better recently, of course. Ron hasn’t actually said anything about it, but that’s probably just because Hermione tells him not to. He still gives me these _looks,_ though, and when he found out I decided against being an auror at first he was pretty upset about it.”

“But besides the fact that having a secret like that could be dangerous in the field, hadn’t you already decided that you didn’t want to pursue that career?” Draco asks.

Harry smiles at him. “Yeah. But I think Ron will always have some doubt, because of my pelt.”

Draco’s eyes turn fierce. “That’s incredibly unfair.”

Harry shrugs. “I still love him. He’s my best friend.”

Draco huffs at that.

“Yesterday…” Harry draws his pelt tighter to him, bringing his knees up and wrapping himself completely in its warmth. “I don’t know if yesterday really counts — I mean, of course it does, but there was just so much _chaos,_ and I was — a _mess_ would be putting it lightly. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to handle that much pure emotion again. There was just so much _greed,_ and _hunger._ From people I don’t even _know.”_

“But you faced it,” Draco says. “Just like you always do. You’re so strong, Harry.”

“And I’m so tired of it, Draco. Just give me some time, and we can face it together later.”

Draco gives him a searching look, before reaching into his sleeve to pull out his wand. He wards the fireplace against Floo visitors and settles back on the couch, as close to Harry’s side as he can without touching him. “That’s a type of strength, too, you know. You always get up. Always.”

***

It’s not until after lunch that Draco removes the wards on the Floo, and almost immediately it chimes, Hermione’s head appearing in the flames. _“Harry, can we come through?”_

She sounds frantic, which is fair, given what’s happened, but there’s an edge that makes Harry uneasy. He nods, “Of course, Hermione.”

She disappears for a moment, allowing herself to come back and step fully into the Floo. Ron follows behind her.

Harry can tell from Ron’s face that he wasn’t wrong to feel uneasy.

They both take a moment to brush off any loose soot and to right themselves, but they both notice Draco fairly quickly after that. They’re no longer holding hands, but they’re sitting close enough together that Ron’s expression goes from irritated to outrage in seconds.

“What the hell, Harry?”

“ _What_ are you on about, Ron?” Harry’s been talking to them about Draco, and from the knowing looks Hermione has given Harry whenever the topic has come up, he doesn’t think they should be quite so surprised that Draco’s there.  

 _“Ron,”_ Hermione hisses, tugging on his sleeve. _“Not now.”_

“Not _now?_ Then _when,_ ‘Mione? First he yells at Ginny, then he decides to quit on being an auror, then he starts flirting with bloody _Malfoy,_ and now he’s getting _violent!_ It’s the bloody seal skin!”

Anger boils under his skin, tingeing his vision red. “Ron,” he says slowly, in a tone that has them all standing at attention. “You don’t fucking _believe_ that shit, do you? You don’t _believe_ the paper and the woman who has been lying about me for years, who is willing to drag me through the mud for a few galleons?”

Ron isn’t cowed.  “Well, how can I not? With the way you’ve been acting?”

“The way I’ve been _acting?_ Ron, you’re going to stand there, my _best friend,_ and tell me that you think I’m less than human?”

“You’re _different,_ mate! It’s all different since you found that bloody piece of fur, and —”

 _“It’s been different since the_ war _, you complete git!”_ Harry yells, fuming. Hermione and Draco stand off to the side watching the argument unfold; Hermione watches with tears in her eyes, and Draco with a completely unreadable expression on his face. “Of course it’s going to be different after the war. Yeah, I didn’t want to date Ginny after everything. Too much happened between us. Yes, I decided against going into the auror program, but that was because I’m done chasing after dark wizards after doing it _since I was eleven._ Draco and I have been working together at Hogwarts, and we’ve been talking and now we’re friends and so what if there’s something more than that there, Ron? _I’m happy with him here._ Right now, I’m _happy_ with Draco.”

Ron’s face is a furious red, a stubborn set to his jaw. “You wouldn’t have been before.”

“You mean when we were in the middle of a war, and on opposite _sides_ of that war? Or before that, when we would follow each other around and throw curses at each other? Because that’s obvious, Ron. We _talked._ We _communicated._ If there was a problem, we sought the other out, fought about it, got over it, and _moved on._ Why haven’t _you_ done that, Ron?”

“Because you wouldn’t have listened to me,” he replies.

“What would you have asked me to do?”

“Get rid of that fur, of course.”

Harry looks back at Draco, shaking his head incredulously. “How is it that _you_ knew so much about selkies beforehand?”

“A more thorough education?”

“Shut _up,_ Malfoy —”

“No!” Harry cuts him off. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, and I shouldn’t have brought him into this. You won’t bring him into it, either.”

Ron huffs and crosses his arms. He’s still fuming, but he doesn’t say anything more.

“Ron,” Harry starts, softly. “Yes, I’ve changed since finding out I’m a selkie. But I’ve told you all of the other reasons I’ve changed, too, and I have to wonder why that isn’t enough. Finding my pelt was one of the _best_ things that’s happened to me, Ron, and of course it was bloody life-changing. I was missing an actual, physical _piece_ of myself, Ron, and I had no way of knowing _what_ it was because it was taken from me when I was too young to remember it. If I lose it now, I think that I actually _would_ go mad.”

Ron shuffles his feet, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “What about what happened yesterday? The aggression? That’s not you.”

Harry snorts. “You just answered your own question, Ron. It’s _not me._ It was a lie. She might have even made up the student, for all I know.”

Ron looks unsure now, _finally,_ because Harry has just about reached the last bit of his patience.

He turns around and drops back into his seat on the couch, pulling his pelt into his lap. Ron narrows his eyes at it like it’s a living thing, but thankfully he says nothing and takes his usual spot in the red armchair closest to the fire. Hermione looks between them both, muttering _finally_ beneath her breath while looking at Ron — who acts as though he doesn’t hear her, but his act is ruined by the flush of his ears — and takes her own spot in the second armchair. Draco returns to Harry’s side, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a small smile.

“So, what are we going to do?” Hermione asks. “It’s completely ridiculous that anyone would believe you to be so violent, but it doesn’t help that there have been no publicly known selkies in years.”

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs. “It would be a mess if I just went out there to do an interview, because I barely know anything about it myself. I don’t have all the answers, and the ones I do have are too personal to share.”

“So you’re just going to leave it? Harry, I don’t know if that’s a good idea —”

“I can write a statement. I’ll ask Luna to put it in _The Quibbler,_ ” he replies. It’s the best solution he can think of that won’t require him to go out of the house just yet, and he trusts Luna to share his words without any kind of editing.

Since going back to Hogwarts is probably not a good idea just yet, perhaps Harry can spend some time focusing his research on selkies and his own family history. Now that the secret is out, he doesn’t really have to worry about people being too nosy or trying too hard to hide what he’s doing. Maybe Draco will want to help him.

Hermione sighs, watching him with a look of concern. Ron hasn’t said anything, and Draco almost seems bored. “Fine,” Hermione says. “But how about we work on that now, together, and I’ll bring it over to her this afternoon.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees, relieved. Hermione summons ink, a quill and some parchment from her bag, and makes Harry scooch closer to Draco on the couch so that she can squeeze in beside him. Harry makes sure that neither of them risk touching his pelt, but when his shoulder brushes with Draco’s he leans into the touch, completely at ease.

“Alright then, how about we use something like this, Harry…”

***

 Harry and Draco sit in comfortable silence after Ron and Hermione leave. Harry lets his eyes close and combs his fingers through his pelt, quietly enjoying the feeling of Draco’s eyes on him.

“Why did you let the Weasel think there was something more between us?”

 _Aha._ Harry does his best to keep the smile from showing. “Did I do that?”

Draco squirms, making the cushion they’re sitting on bounce, jostling Harry. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“What does it matter? It’s not _true,_ no, but if it were, it wouldn’t be _wrong_ of us, Draco.”

Harry’s eyes are still closed, but he can _feel_ Draco’s stillness.

“Not wrong,” he says, not quite a question.

“Nope.” The single word answer does its job of infuriating Draco wonderfully, and Harry is absolutely delighted.

“Well — I don’t know what would have happened between us that would have given Weasel the impression that we’re — _together —_ but surely I would have remembered something —”

Harry can’t help himself any longer; he leans in while Draco is mid-sentence, lets his pelt slip from his shoulders and presses his lips to Draco’s.

It’s the softest of touches, but it’s enough to stop Draco in his tracks. Harry leans back and laughs at the open-mouthed look of surprise on Draco’s face. His cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are shining.

“How about that, then?”

Draco blinks, his expression changing to one of outrage. _“Completely insufficient!”_ he sputters.

Draco pulls him back in, and Harry goes down laughing.

_One day I’ll go to the ocean._

_And I think I might ask Draco to come with me._

 

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**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and Kudos are super appreciated!


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